In the deep darkness, where the soul draws its night curtain
In the deep darkness, where the soul draws its night curtain,
I write with the blind cruelty of children throwing stones,
Hitting a madwoman like a crow in chaotic flight,
No—not writing: opening a passage in the twilight,
So the dead may send cryptic messages,
An equation of shadows and light.
What is writing, if not a whirlwind of senses,
To steer through the light of mirrors in dense darkness,
To imagine places known only to me,
Like a song of distances, a melody of untouched faraways,
Hearing the vivid notes of birds painted on Christmas trees.
In the twilight of the soul, every word is a breach,
Through which silent spirits pass, shadowing star paths,
Like messengers arriving on ancient wings,
In a world of consciousness, where silence tends to be the universe,
Caught between thoughts, dreams, and old memories.
At the edge of night, words stand like sentinels,
Guiding paper steps through whirlwinds of aims,
Unraveling roots of unfulfilled desires,
In rhythms of painted birds, screaming under blue worlds.
Writing, this ancient art, a dialogue with the unknown,
The mirrors in which we see faces we have not known,
We lose ourselves in labyrinths of narratives, like lost children,
Hitting shadows with stones of poetry, outlining new skies.
Who am I, but a shadow sculpted by ancient times,
A speaker of those unspoken non-words,
The storyteller who lights up silent galleries,
Letting the dead sing their longing among speaking pages.
Breaches open in twilight, shadows gather,
Like a mysterious choir of paper birds, caught in Christmas trees,
Where pain and joy meet in vivid notes,
Of a song written in the depths of my soul.
This is how I write, not just with words, but with crushed echoes,
Drawing dream scenes in the black night,
Guiding through mirrors, led by the eternal call,
To give voice to the unknown, in tones dressed in melancholic magic.
Copyright ©
Dan Enache
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